Training Day 1

I am not a morning person. I think my body’s internal clock has some kind of strong visceral repulsion to any time before 8 AM. It just knows that it’s too early.  And no, the amount of hours slept never really seems to help.

“Oh, were you trying to wake up?” My body might ask with a hint of sarcasm. It is not happy to have been rudely awoken up by my phone’s alarm.

“Yes, you see, I have to wake for training. It’s the first day; god forbid I show up late.” I reply to no one in particular, recalling the stern warning of our HR director the previous evening regarding tardiness. “I need to be energized and ready to focus. I’m a goddamn salaryman now!” I make a feeble attempt at motivating myself. I have never been too good at that whole motivation thing either, but that’s another story.

“Yeah, well, good luck with that then. But can’t say I’ll be able to help you out, buddy.” My body quips, choosing to abandon me in my time of great need. A wave of exhaustion rushes over my body. My blanket suddenly feels twice as warm; the previously uncomfortable hard hotel mattress transforms into a soft gentle cushion…

…And three snooze alarms later, I finally drag my semi-conscious body out of bed.

I check my provided “training manual” for guidance on where to go next. I notice that I remembered to scribble an important message in the margin: “eat breakfast while wearing suit.” Heeding the wise words, I put on my dark navy blue suit and white shirt I strategically hung up the previous night in a meager attempt at preventing wrinkles. A peak at the bathroom mirror reveals that the wrinkle strategy was ineffective. But no matter, it’s time to head down for breakfast.

The hotel dining room is laid out in long rows of tables, with signs on the tables every few seats marking a different class letter. The first eight seats or so belong to “Class A”, followed by “Class B”, and so on. I take my seat at the “Class C” section of the long table. The entire hotel has been rented out for our training program, so there are no other guests to be confused by the meticulously planned seating arrangement.

Everyone around me seems to be unusually energetic and talkative as they take their seats, rushing to distribute utensils and evenly-portioned amounts of food to the people sitting around them. It almost seems like a contest to see who can be the most “helpful” in passing out forks and bowls of miso soup. I quickly understand why: at each table sits one of the instructors involved in our training program, watching us as we file into the dining area. As a new recruit with no real job skills, the only way to appeal to the higher-ups at this point is to show off impeccable manners and concern for others, the more over-the-top the better. Without thinking, I reach for the tongs to grab myself a handful of salad from a large communal bowl in the center of the table, but I am beaten to the punch; the young salaryman with a buzzcut sitting next to me exclaims that he will be handling the salad, and yanks the tongs from my hand. With deliberate speed, he distributes the salad in equal portions to the other three people sitting around him, making sure each portion contains at least a single cherry tomato. He serves himself last. The instructor appears pleased.

Upset that I have been beaten in this early-morning show of manners, but still too tired to feel like doing anything about it, I try to make conversation with the people around me. I receive the usual barrage of questions. Where are you from? Really, where in America? I’ve never heard of that place. Your Japanese is so good. How did you study it? Why did you want to join this company? I answer straightforwardly but without much thought; after all, I’ve fielded these kinds of questions many times before. Besides, I certainly do not dislike the feeling of being the “interesting” person at the table everyone want to learn more about. It is only after breakfast do I realize that in my rush to answer all of their questions, I had little chance to learn anything about my surrounding interviewers in return. Damn, what were their names again?

We file from the dining area to the largest conference room in the hotel. The HR person in charge of the new recruit training program takes the stage. The usual greetings are made, followed by an overview of the training program that we will all be following for the next few months. I jot barely-legible notes down here and there in the margins of my training manual and schedule; others are using rulers and multi-colored highlighters to create detailed outlines in separate leather-bound notebooks. At one point in his introductory remarks, the HR director stops to remind us of the speeches that the CEO and Chairman gave us during the entrance ceremony we attended the previous week before training began.

“What were the three pieces of advice that the CEO gave in his speech?” The HR director asks in what I initially believe to be a hypothetical manner. “Nakata Ryouhei, stand up and answer.” The HR director continues, reading the name off from a list. It quickly dawns on me the question was not hypothetical. Nakata slowly stands, I assume feeling the weight of literally hundreds of eyes bearing down on him.

“I…” He stammers. “I do not remember.” Nakata looks embarrassed. Took the words right out of my mouth, I think to myself.

“Ridiculous. Sit down. Who here remembers?” The HR director asks, looking annoyed. A number of hands go up and the HR director motions to someone from a table on the other side of the room.

“Okubo Kenta. Keio University graduate.” He prefaces importantly. “The CEO said we should always exceed customer expectations, that we should not be afraid of new challenges, and that we should always admit if we have made mistakes.”

“Good. You may sit down.” The HR director replies without smiling. “However, I assume that Nakata was not the only person here who did not remember what the CEO said. You are being paid to be here in training. Do you think it is excusable to not be taking notes on what is being said, especially if it is the CEO of the company who is speaking? Right now, remembering what is being said here in training is your job. If you are not taking notes, why should we be paying you?”

The rustling sounds of notebooks and pens being pulled out of freshly-purchased business bags instantly reverberates throughout the conference room. Something about the tone of the HR director and his unsmiling face makes my heart sink. At the end of the HR director’s speech–and after the room full of new recruits have now filled a page or two with detailed notes–we are asked to put everything except our pens away. The request reminds me of school. And it is at that point I remember that we are about to take a test…

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Salaryman Bootcamp

Our chartered buses pull into the empty parking lot of the hotel, which will be our improvised training center for the first few weeks. The surrounding cabins sport signs for ski gear rental, but everything is closed. It’s the beginning of April after all, and because of the off-season timing there isn’t anyone else in sight. We exit the bus and head towards the imposing grey hotel, greeted on both sides by bowing hotel staff. Inside I wheel my two large suitcases to my room, where I discover that I will be sharing it with another salaryman trainee. For the next few months, I expect not to have much privacy. Group activities, shared room and meals, living in training centers for gods sake—this is not just training. This is bootcamp.

Nonetheless, I soon discover that room-wise some people have it even worse than me. Because of the large number of new recruits (over 200), combined with what I assume is our company’s attempt to shave some costs, a substantial number of new recruits have been packed into large tatami rooms, where close to 10 people will have to work together to secure spots Tetris-style on the floor for their futons. I have only a single roommate for the week, and have a bed. Perhaps I am the lucky one here.

Despite my room having its own shower I decide to head down to public bath in the basement of the hotel for a little communal salaryman bonding. The atmosphere downstairs is not unlike a high school or college summer camp. Everyone is friendly and loud, and many already know each other from college. Most introduce themselves not by stating what they studied or majored in, but rather what sports team they were a part of.

“What did you do in college?” I ask someone in the bathroom changing room.

“Football.” He replies.

I also discover there are only a handful of colleges—Keio, Todai, Waseda—represented in the company, while naturally I am the only one from mine. With basically no one having heard of my university, the best I can hope for is to tell them I went to school abroad, which is met with a few oohs and aahs before the conversation moves on—there are rarely any followup questions.

Also, I should note that while I am using the word salaryman, there are women among the new recruits too, albeit less than 10% of our total numbers. I bring up the lack of women to my new football-playing acquaintance.

“So… in a pool of 200+ new recruits fewer than 10% are female. How exciting…” I remark sardonically. While I love male bonding, at the same time I also recall just how long training will last and that I am going to be stuck in such an environment for that long.

“I know!” He perks up. ” I think it’s a new record this year! So many!” He does not pick up on my sarcasm.

I later discover that there are other women in the company, but that their training is separate from ours. As in most Japanese companies, there are “office career” recruits and “management career” recruits. The hundreds of “office career” (mainly administrative work) recruits, whom are all female, will be having their training is a completely different location. No gender mixing allowed. I imagine a future Japan where due to the declining population the first male “office career” recruit is hired, and as a result, shares a training center with a couple hundred young Japanese women. It would be a hit manga, at least.

After the bath I head out into the hallway and grab one of the few chairs lined up outside a row of vending machines. The one that sells beer has a handwritten sign that says “out-of-order,” but peeking under the sign the machine appears to be in working order. I begin to consider a number of conspiracy theories behind the existence of the sign until I am interrupted by another one of my fellow salarymen.

“Hi, do you speak Japanese?” He asks me in Japanese.

“Yes.” I reply.

“Wow! You’re so good at it! How long have you been studying?”

It’s a fairly standard conversation one must have a million times coming to Japan as a non-Asian looking person. I bite my tongue and thank him. The conversation turns to the activities we will be doing tomorrow, one of which includes a knowledge test of our company’s product line-up that we were expected study before the official company joining date. And I don’t just mean perusing a few brochures—I’m talking about reviewing complete, internally published textbooks that go into exacting details on everything that a good salaryman ought to know about what our company does and sells. The test is first thing tomorrow morning. Failure is—apparently—not an option.

“So, the test tomorrow — you ready?” He asks me. “It’s going to be in Japanese, so you’re kinda screwed, right?”

“I’ll do my best.” I refrain from adding asshole at the end of my response.

Despite talking with the guy in Japanese for the past 5 minutes, the possibility that I could actually read Japanese too seems so remote as to not even be possible. I consider the pros and cons of this situation — as a non-Japanese, non-Asian person in a very Japanese environment, I stand out as a curiosity, and most everyone is excited to engage me in at least in some sort of do-you-speak-Japanese conversation. But at the same time, I’m not treated as just another one of the new salarymen. I’m an outsider that can’t possibility function on the same level or complete the same tasks. Most of the new recruits here are surprised I even speak their language, without making the connection I’m in the same training center with them doing the exact same training. I want to stand out and be popular—and my physical features allow me to do so—but I want to fit in too. It’s a paradox and I can’t have it both ways, so what do I really want?

I decide not to consider that question any further and head back to my room. There’s going to be a test tomorrow, and I need to study. Day 1 of salaryman boot camp is about to begin.

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The Bus to the Training Center

Sunday afternoon. The freshly minted Japanese salarymen load on to the large buses parked outside the company headquarters. Despite technically being a day off, the dress code for the bus is—of course—suit and tie.  The muggy April weather is not helping. Upon entering the bus, a few people are confused where to sit. So far, every seating location and room assignment has been made exacting clear in the New Employee Documents And Handbooks that we have received. The bus, however, has no seating chart. A few people begin to break into confusion. “Was there a seating chart? Is this free seating?” Nonetheless, once a few people begin to sit, everyone else follows along quickly, lest they be stuck in one of the dreaded, marginally more uncomfortable “aisle seats” that can pulled up if no other regular seats are remaining.

The new salarymen are nervous about what’s to come during training—they’ve heard plenty of rumors from older employees in the company about endless tests and military-style treatment—but there’s a calming excitement about commencing training as well. After all, everything is planned out. There’s no need to worry about what to do or think about; everything will be spelled out for you. Just complete every task that’s thrown at you, all while maintaining a cheerful, go-getter-like attitude. Do that, and the all-powerful HR managers who are running the training may take a liking to you, which perhaps will lead to a good job placement once training comes to an end.

The bus ride to the training center is mostly uneventful. The smell of everyone eating lunch in unison is nauseating, but bearable. A few young salaryman pull out their textbooks to study, knowing that daily knowledge tests will be the norm during training. But most everyone else simply falls asleep as the bus heads towards its destination far away from the city center. As the reception bars on my Softbank smartphone begin to fade, I know we must be getting close…

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